i posted this on ao3 two weeks ago, so i decided to post it here too because why not.

i realize this pairing is weird, but i blame that redemption fic for getting me into it.

expect some twists here and there, and like some OCs too. also there's a character from the book of life thrown in because i needed someone to play the enchanter. forgive me.

anyway, enjoy!

Long ago, in a small village known as Santa Cecilia, there once lived two friends. Their names were Ernesto de la Cruz and Héctor.

Ernesto was the older one by four years – a slender, muscular man with black hair, a moustache and a deep voice. Meanwhile, Héctor was the younger one – a lanky guy with a gold tooth, dark brown hair and goatee and a soft yet firm voice. Despite being complete opposites, the two were as close as ever, having been friends ever since they were two rambunctious little boys running around the streets.

However, their friendship became strained as Héctor fell for a feisty woman around his age by the name of Imelda Rivera. At first, Ernesto tried to dissuade his friend from courting the ill-tempered woman, as he thought that their romance wouldn't last a week – but Héctor paid no mind to his friend's words, and continued to pursue Imelda, even going as far as to writing a song for her. Luckily for him, she reciprocated his feelings – and soon, they were married and blessed with a little girl, whom they named Coco.

After Coco was born, Héctor began spending more time with his new family. He wrote songs for his daughter, and sung lullabies to her every night. As he dedicated more time to his familia, he spent less time with his own friend – even their usual meetups and brainstorming for music became less frequent as he paid more attention to his wife and daughter.

Ernesto grew jealous, for he had met Héctor first and had known him much longer than that woman had – and while Coco was indeed a cute little girl, that still didn't soften the bitter feelings that would surface each time his friend would cut their meetings short just for the child's sake.

He wanted to be happy for his friend, but it was hard to be when he was getting the short end of the stick. He wished that things would go back to the way they were before – when they were just a duo, a pair of friends ready to sing for the world.

And so, De la Cruz came up with an idea.

One night, he invited Héctor over to the bar for a quick drink. Once they met up, he suggested: "You know, since it's been our dream to sing for the world, why don't we go on a tour of the country together? Just you and me – like back in the old days."

Héctor agreed, and the next day their bags were packed and ready to go. The lanky man kissed his wife and daughter goodbye, promising to write them letters while De la Cruz rolled his eyes.

The first few months of touring the country had been wonderful. Héctor had written such good melodies, and together they sung to large audiences, causing the people to swoon. No worries and no interruptions – only the occasional letters and poems Héctor wrote for his daughter, but aside from that, it was all perfect.

But then, one night in December, Héctor spoke of how homesick he was – he told his friend that he had made up his mind, and was going home no matter what.

Angered by the younger man's decision, Ernesto decided that he wasn't going to let him ruin anything; not when they'd gotten this far, and when his songs were needed – and so, he carefully sprinkled a small amount of poison in his friend's drink before proposing a toast, passing off the powdery substance at the bottom as "flavoring."

But as Héctor took his shot glass in his hand, there was a knock at the door. Curious, the young man opened it, only to find a frail old man standing there.

"Excuse me, Señores, but could I come in?" the old man asked. "I need a place to stay for the night."

Ernesto began to feel a little nervous. If he were to let the elder in, who was to say that he wouldn't stop him from seizing his moment?

Héctor, on the other hand, smiled at the elder and stepped aside as he let him enter.

The old man noticed the glass in the younger man's hand, eyeing it before he asked, "My boy, why is there powder at the bottom of your drink?"

"Oh – it's a bit of flavoring added by mi amigo," Héctor replied, gesturing at Ernesto.

"Yes – yes, it's flavoring I added to enhance the taste," Ernesto lied, a bit of sweating pouring down his forehead.

The old man's eyebrows furrowed. "If it really is just flavoring, why not pour some of it onto the ground and let the rats have a taste?"

Ernesto's eyes narrowed. "Are you crazy? Why on earth would you feed a bunch of rats?"

The old man glared at him for a moment, before looking back at Héctor. "It's wise to test things out first than to blindly ingest something," he advised. "Even if it may come from a friend, you can never know…"

Héctor raised an eyebrow, a little skeptical. Still, he followed the elder's advice and poured a bit of his tequila into a corner of the room – some of its powdery contents sprinkling the floor. A bunch of rats scurried over to the powder, though the largest one ingested most of it. For a few minutes, it licked itself clean – before it suddenly collapsed onto the ground, stiff as a doorknob.

"Wow, I – didn't expect that at all," Ernesto chuckled nervously, as his friend dropped his glass—causing it to shatter as it hit the ground—as he looked at the dead rat in horror.

"You…" Héctor trailed off as he looked at his friend. "You were going to poison me…?"

"Héctor, I—" Ernesto began, only for the younger man to cut him off.

"—you were going to kill me just because I wanted to go back home?!" the young musician raised his voice as he shouted at his so-called 'friend'. "What, were you going to wait until I collapsed at the train station so you could take my guitar and songbook? Were you going to call my family and tell them I left the country or something so that they'd forget me?"

"I – I wanted to seize my moment," De la Cruz tried to justify his actions. "I needed your songs, so I acted on impulse…" He approached the younger man, holding a hand out as he tried touching his shoulder. "Look, I just—"

"Don't touch me!" Héctor hissed as he backed away from the twenty-five year-old. He picked up his suitcase and guitar case once more, as he rushed over to the door. For a moment, he glanced back at his friend and whispered, "To think, I once called you mi amigo…"

Before Ernesto could say anything else, the young musician left and slammed the door shut, leaving the twenty-five year-old alone with the elder, who had remained silent during the whole confrontation.

"Why did you have to go and stick your nose where it didn't belong?" he snapped, turning to the old man. "Because of you, I've lost my friend and my chances at seizing my moment!"

"If you hadn't tried to poison your friend, then things wouldn't be the way they are now," the old man replied in a simple manner.

"How dare— who are you and why did you come here, anyway?" Ernesto asked, frustrated by the old man's presence in general. "Are you some type of sorcerer who has come to test me or something?"

"The 'test' part is only slightly true," the elder answered, with a toothy grin. "But really, I enjoy meddling in mortal affairs since it's the most fun I get aside from…" he trailed off for a moment, before he shrugged. "Well, what I do won't be of concern to you – at least, not for a few decades, unless you change your ways before you end up digging your own grave – if so, then this is the last time you'll see me. And trust me, you would be much better off that way."

"'Mortal affairs?'" the twenty-five year-old repeated, confused by his statement. "What—"

Before he could say anything else, though, the old man left. Ernesto ran outside and was about to demand for more answers, but the elder had vanished already, completely out of sight.

Ernesto thought about the old man's last words. Would he really be seeing him again in a couple of decades if he didn't pay heed to his warning?

He then shook his head. No, that wasn't possible – the elder would be dead by then. Perhaps, he was only saying those things to scare him. Besides, it wasn't like he could do anything to him, right?

Twenty-one years passed, and while Ernesto still remembered the night with the elder and Héctor, he had forgotten the former's warning. Instead, he still pursued a musical career – starting off by covering old classics, before he finally managed to write his own songs. He even did a bit of acting, starring in a few films during the 1930s.

(Despite the fact that his songs weren't as creative as his former friend's, they still brought in an audience, making him well-known throughout most of the country.

Still, a part of him missed Héctor.

Sometimes, he wondered if there was a way he could've seized his moment that night without making such a huge mistake – then, he would push those thoughts aside, telling himself: "The past already happened, and there's nothing you can do about it now."

Besides, he was beloved by many others – so, why should he keep the flames of the past still burning? Like other fires, they should be put out.)

Now, it was September, 1942 – and tonight would be his biggest performance yet.

He stood in front of a mirror, dressed in a blue mariachi suit. He straightened his bowtie, just as the stagehand called out to him: "Señor, you're on in a few minutes!"

Ernesto grinned as he stepped forward, taking his place behind the curtains. He turned to the stagehand and asked, "How do I look?"

"Fantastic," the stagehand replied, placing a hand on De la Cruz's shoulder for a moment while smirking a little. Then, he walked away.

Ernesto raised an eyebrow, finding the man's smirk to be a little… strange, to say the least. He shrugged, figuring that he was probably looking way too deep into things.

He composed himself, just as the curtains began to rise.

"Damas y caballeros," the announcer began, "with our deepest pride and greatest pleasure, we present: Ernesto de la Cruz!"

The audience cheered as the mariachi stepped out onto the stage, beneath a church bell. He cleared his throat, before he began to sing.

"Oh, how divine!

Glamour, music and magic combine.

See the maidens so anxious to shine."

A bunch of women dressed in red, yellow and white dresses walked onto the stage, standing across from the mariachi. They all bowed as they faced him, causing him to grin a little.

He'd always had an eye for beautiful women.

"Look for a sign that enhances chances.

She'll be his special one!"

The women began to dance, twirling their skirts as the mariachi continued to sing.

"What a display!

What a breathtaking, thrilling array!

Every prince, every dog has his day!"

Ernesto took a few steps forward, nudging one of the women's shoulders before winking at her, while she merely smiled at him.

He then backed up underneath the bell once more as he finished the song.

"Let us sing with passion, gusto, fit to bust— oh, not a care in the world!"

Just as he hit the final note, the bell began to creek – and before anyone could even blink, it fell on top of him, crushing him and ending his life right then and there.

The last thing he heard aside from the loud ringing were the screams of horror and shouting that came from the audience.

And yet, he never got to see their reactions, or witness the curtain falling…

When Ernesto woke up, the first thing he saw was his bony hands.

He raised his arms, horrified at the sight. "No," he whispered, shaking his head. "I can't – I can't be dead!"

"Oh, but you are," an eerily familiar voice said.

He looked ahead and saw a black skeleton, dress in dark armor, with wings on his back and a crown on his head.

"Who are you?" Ernesto asked.

The winged skeleton scoffed. "You've forgotten me already? I am hurt, Señor de la Cruz." He stopped for a moment, before he shrugged. "Then again, it has been twenty-one years since that night, when you tried 'seizing your moment'."

"Wait…" Ernesto trailed off, as he remembered the old man, his eyes soon narrowing. "You're – you're that old man!"

"Ah, so you do remember me!"

"So you are a sorcerer..."

"Well, I prefer the title 'Xibalba, Ruler of the Land of the Forgotten' more," the winged skeleton replied, smirking a little. "Though I do see why you would make a mistake like that – after all, the ability to kill someone with a mere touch is considered witchcraft by many."

"Wait – what?" Ernesto's eyes widened as Xibalba's words sunk in. "You – you're responsible for my death?"

"While I didn't exactly have a hand in the bell collapsing, let's just say shapeshifting has its perks," Xibalba responded.

Ernesto clenched his fists as he stood up. "You killed me!" he shouted.

"I warned you long ago to clean up your act!" Xibalba shot back. "But no, you let your pride get to you, and continued to be a self-absorbed man obsessed with fame – even breaking a few hearts along the way. Not once did you bother to fix your own mistakes."

Ernesto gritted his teeth, looking down at the ground. It was true, he had a few affairs in the past, and he never really did approach Héctor after that night – but it was mostly because he feared confrontation for his actions, and he also wanted to focus on his career a bit more, still trying to make it in the music industry.

"And now, you're facing the consequences," Xibalba continued. "As years pass, people will begin to forget you – they won't remember you like how they do with the other musicians and stars who've made it just as big in the business. Unlike them, you will rot in the Land of the Forgotten for the rest of your days."

The god then turned to leave, but just as he was about to disappear, Ernesto yelled out: "Wait!" The god looked back at the mariachi, as he continued, "There must be a way I can fix this, or at least avoid such a fate – right?"

Xibalba stared at the mariachi, pondering for a moment. While he thought that the forty-six year old deserved to be forgotten, he did enjoy striking up a deal on occasions. "There is a way," he spoke, approaching De la Cruz. "You were a little casanova back in the Land of the Living, so it only seems fit that the only way to break your little… curse, is to fall in love with a woman, and that she returns your feelings."

"That's it?" Ernesto grinned a little. "Well, that seems easy—"

"—but," the god continued, "it must be before the sun sets on the 75th Día de los Muertos, after your demise. And of course, you have limitations: you cannot speak of this curse, nor can you use your looks to sleep your way around it – the love has to be genuine."

"And if the curse isn't broken by the time I've reached the 75th year mark…?"

"Like I've said before: you will rot here in the Land of the Forgotten for all eternity." Xibalba then snapped his fingers, causing a vase of marigold flowers to appear. He placed the vase in the mariachi's hands.

"What are these for?" Ernesto questioned.

"To mark how much time has passed," Xibalba answered. "When the last petal falls, it means that your time is up."

As the god turned to leave once more, he yelled, "Buena suerte, mi amigo! Lo necesitarás!"

And with that, he disappeared, leaving Ernesto all by himself.

Indeed, the Ruler of the Land of the Forgotten was right – it was not an easy task for Ernesto.

Days turned into months, months turned into years – and still, there was no luck for De la Cruz. In fact, things only seemed to get worse for him, as his once loyal fans soon began to forget him.

Eventually, the mariachi no longer kept his hopes up.

Just how could he find a woman to love, who would actually return his feelings?

It was all hopeless – completely and utterly hopeless.